The Seafarer

BY EZRA POUND

May I for my own self song’s truth reckon,

Journey’s jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
Known on my keel many a care’s hold,
And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship’s head
While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
My feet were by frost benumbed.
Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
Hew my heart round and hunger begot
Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
Deprived of my kinsmen;
Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
There I heard naught save the harsh sea
And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
Did for my games the gannet’s clamour,
Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter,
The mews' singing all my mead-drink.
Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
With spray on his pinion.
Not any protector
May make merry man faring needy.
This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
Abides ’mid burghers some heavy business,
Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
Must bide above brine.
Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
The heart's thought that I on high streams
The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
Moaneth alway my mind’s lust
That I fare forth, that I afar hence
Seek out a foreign fastness.
For this there’s no mood-lofty man over earth’s midst,
Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed;
Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
Whatever his lord will.
He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight
Nor any whit else save the wave's slash,
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
 All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
On flood-ways to be far departing.
Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not —
He the prosperous man — what some perform
Where wandering them widest draweth.
So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
My mood ’mid the mere-flood,
Over the whale’s acre, would wander wide.
On earth’s shelter cometh oft to me,
Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
My lord deems to me this dead life
On loan and on land, I believe not
That any earth-weal eternal standeth
Save there be somewhat calamitous
That, ere a man’s tide go, turn it to twain.
Disease or oldness or sword-hate
Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after —
Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
That he will work ere he pass onward,
Frame on the fair earth ’gainst foes his malice,
Daring ado, ...
So that all men shall honour him after
And his laud beyond them remain ’mid the English,
Aye, for ever, a lasting life’s-blast,
Delight mid the doughty.
Days little durable,
And all arrogance of earthen riches,
There come now no kings nor Cæsars
Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
Howe’er in mirth most magnified,
Whoe’er lived in life most lordliest,
Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
No man at all going the earth’s gait,
But age fares against him, his face paleth,
Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
Lordly men are to earth o’ergiven,
Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
And though he strew the grave with gold,
His born brothers, their buried bodies
Be an unlikely treasure hoard.

The Wanderer
 Oh well I'm the type of guy who will never settle down
Where pretty girls are well, you know that I'm around
I kiss 'em and I love 'em 'cause to me they're all the same
I hug 'em and I squeeze 'em they don't even know my name
They call me the wanderer, yeah the wanderer
I roam around around around
Oh well there's Flo on my left and there's Mary on my right
And Janie is the girl with that I'll be with tonight
And when she asks me which one I love the best
I tear open my shirt I got Rosie on my chest
'Cause I'm the wanderer yeah the wanderer
I roam around around around
Oh well I roam from town to town
I go through life without a care
'Til I'm as happy as a clown
With my two fists of iron and I'm going nowhere
I'm the type of guy that likes to roam around
I'm never in one place I roam from town to town
And when I find myself a-fallin' for some girl, yeah
I hop right into that car of mine and ride around the world
Yeah I'm the wanderer, yeah the wanderer
I roam around around around, let's go
Oh yeah I'm the type of guy that likes to roam around
I'm never in one place I roam from town to town
And when I find myself a-fallin' for some girl
I hop right into that car of mine and ride around the world
'Cause I'm a wanderer, yeah a wanderer
I roam around around around, around, around
'Cause I'm a wanderer, yeah a wanderer
I roam around around around, aroundm around

The Wife’s Lament

She Laments

Oh, I can relate a tale right here, make myself

 a map of miseries & trek right across.
I can say as much as you like —
how many gut-wretched nights ground over me
once I was a full-grown woman,
from early days to later nights,
never ever any more than right now.

When is it never a struggle, a torment,

this arc of misfortune, mine alone?
It started when my man up and left,
who knows where, from his tribe
across the sleeplessness of waves.
I conceived a care at the dawning of dawn:
where did that man of a man go?

Then I ferried myself forth, trying to dole

my part of the deal, a wretch drained of friends,
out a trembling need inside me.

So it begins: his family starts scheming

moling up mountains of secret malice
to delve into our division,
make us survive along the widest wound of us —
could they be any more loathsome? —
and I became a longing inside.

My love said to shack up in shadowy groves.

I was light in loved ones anyways in these lands,
in the loyalties of allegiance.
Therefore my brain brims with bitterness,
when I had located my likeness in him,
blessed with hard luck, heart-hollow,
painting over his intentions,
plotting the greatest of heists.

Masked content, so many times

we swore that nothing but finality itself
could shave us in two, not them, not nothing.
The pivot was not long in coming,
it’s like, what did I hear a poet say once?
“as if it never was…”
that was our partnership.

Must I flag on flogging through feud,

far & near, of my many-beloved?
He was the one who said I should
go live in the woods or something,
sit under an oak-tree, in a gravel pit.
Let’s make it an earthen hall, musty & old,
where I’m all foreaten with longing:
Dales deep darkly, hills hedge me round,
fortresses of sharpness, bramble biting —
can a home be devoid of joy?
 For too many watches the wrathful from-ways
of my lord grabbed hold of me in this place.
Who could I count on? Buried.
Loved in their lives —
all they care about now are their beds.

Then I, when dawn still rumbles,

I wander the ways all alone,
under the oaks, around these graven walls.
There I can sit an endless summer day,
where I can rain me down for my wracking steps,
my collection of woes. So it goes —
never can I, in no wise, catch a break
from my cracking cares, nor this unfolding tear
that grasps me in this my entire life.

The young should always keep their heart in check,

their inner kindlings cool, likewise
they must keep their faces frosty,
also the bubbling in their breast,
though crowded with swarming sorrows.

May all of his joys come at his own hand.

May his name be the name of infamy,
a snarl in faraway mouths, so that my good friend
will be sitting under a stony rain-break,
crusted by the gusty storms,
a man crushed at heart, flowing
in his own water, in his tearful timbering.

That one, yeah, that man of mine

will drag his days under a mighty mind-caring.
He’ll remember every single morning
how full of pleasure was our home.
What woes are theirs who must
weather their worrying for love.